A Hit and Run Diagnosis.

**March is Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month. I plan to write and share and probably overshare here this month in an attempt to educate, and even celebrate the ways my family is unique. **

The boys woke up with a fever the morning of our appointment with the developmental pediatrician. It was a late winter on a Chicago morning, and I knew it was just a simply cold. I wasn't that concerned. What I was concerned about was possibly missing this appointment that had been hanging in the horizon for months. 

My new friend, Jill, and I were due on the exact same day -- July 7. We had met at orientation when both she and her husband and Wade and I were training to be resident heads (dorm parents) at the University of Chicago. Grad school, work, and the role of RH kept us both busy in our own circles but we had bonded over the shared due date, of course.

When I went on bedrest at 19 weeks, she was one of the first to bring a meal to us. I was so thankful for her friendship.

And then I spent months in the hospital before Benjamin, Mason, and Claire would STILL born almost 12 weeks before their July 7th due date. 

Finally, when in August, Jill and her new baby, her older son, the triplets and I got together (Jill delivered on July 7 exactly!), I was just delighted to have a friend who was on the same page. And for a short sweet time, we were. 

We discussed rice cereal. And then we coordinated what foods we introduced and when so we could discuss any reactions.

We made little Halloween costumes for the four and had a sweet little photo shoot with our babies.

She drove us in her mini-van to the airport to pick up Grandmar for Thanksgiving because we couldn't fit Wade and I, the triplets AND Grandmar into our little Honda Civic!

It was a sweet friendship and as still a relative-newcomer to Chicago, and a brand new mom, I was immensely grateful.

And then one day, my new friend put her adorable bundle of joy on the floor and he sat up. He sat up all by himself.

Not one of the triplets was sitting up yet. Not one.

I tried so desperately to convince myself that it was because we had not been working on it. 

I asked my pediatrician about it immediately. She assured me that premature babies often take longer to reach milestones. She told me not to worry.

But even as Claire began to reach milestones, the difference in Jill's son and my boys became more and more telling. The gap between their motor skills more and more frightening. The reality staring at me as the four of them played together, more and more painful. 

And so I began to make excuses for staying home. I began to make excuses for why I couldn't go to the park. I began to make excuses to avoid my friend altogether. And in the avoidance there was just aloneness.

And so the appointment with the developmental pediatrician had so much riding on it: any explanation for the milestone delays would help. Any explanation would give me the courage to be around my friend again. Any explanation would give me hope that our future was not full of so many unknowns, so many uncertainties.

"Of course these boys have Cerebral Palsy," Dr. Developmental Pediatrician said without even touching my sons. "What did you think I would say today?"

He would offer no hope. He would offer no explanation or information. He simply spewed his diagnosis and left us to gather ourselves and our emotions. It felt like we had been hit by a truck. And the truck kept going. Our diagnosis story is just that -- an absolute hit and run.

All these years later, I am embarrassed that I could not find the strength to continue my friendship with Jill. But in the days following the diagnosis, we left the apartment for therapy appointments multiple times a week, we left to eat with our students in the dining hall, and we left for the necessary doctor appointments But otherwise, we stayed home.

Home was just so much easier. At home with my crew I could see how amazing my trio were. I could recognize their gifts and strengths and talents without the constant comparison with other babies, without the constant conversation of "what milestones has baby reached today?" over and over and over again. 

Our address for our apartment in South Chicago was Stony Island. And in those days following the initial diagnosis, we often remarked that we were in fact living on an island, an island occupied by only two adults and three of the cutest one-year-olds ever.

(Come back later this week for more of our story!)